


Pterodactyl-philia

by De Orakle (Delphi)



Series: Kinks [5]
Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Exhibitionism, First Time, M/M, Smut, Workplace Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-12-07
Updated: 1999-12-07
Packaged: 2017-10-12 05:08:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/121128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delphi/pseuds/De%20Orakle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peodeiktophilia: - <i>kink.</i> a proclivity for having sexual relations under the risk of discovery.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pterodactyl-philia

In his mind, he sounded ever so casual and nonchalant. Of course, when Brian actually faced John, the other man's jacket draped over his arm, his larynx and tonsils double-teamed his tongue to trip him up like an incoherent idiot.

It was a bustling Sunday morning, and the sound of bleating phones being snatched up by the harried-sounding weekend-workers had greeted Brian when he had entered the squadroom. This had heartened him, reassuring him that New York's finest were hard at work protecting his fellow citizens. As his line of sight fell upon his partner's desk, he saw that John was, of course, sitting idle, feet propped up, reading one of his obscure conspiracy rags. Brian's stomach had fluttered, and the next thing he knew, he was standing in front of the other man, his fingers fumbling nervously with the garment he carried, willing himself to play it cool.

"Uhm...you...left it at...here."

He thrust the jacket forward; his hand twitched as John's fingers brushed his own, recovering it.

John, with the collected and mild air that Brian had been striving for, inspected the jacket, then quirked an inquisitive eyebrow. "You washed it?"

For a moment, John regretted asking, not wanting to have to explain how he knew what his partner's detergent smelled like. All doubts were cast aside though, as an intriguing, telling blush rose over Brian's skin.

"Yeah, I thought it could use a wash." _Best to leave out that a washing only became necessary because you creamed all over the lapel._ Brian's gaze burned on that very spot, his paranoia trying to convince him that a darker blot remained on the material.

John, oblivious to his partner's guilty conscience, did what he always did when uncertain what to say and let his bravado take over. "Well, thank you, my erstwhile colleague, for the safe return of this integral faction of wardrobe a la Munch, this particular jacket being my personal favourite..." He left the sentence open, then realized that Brian was still staring dumbly at the jacket.

He continued, "This is your cue to make a crack about how all my suits look the same—give me a little competition here."

Brian's brain snapped back from La-La Land, and he slipped on an easy grin, happy to have been given some direction as to how to play this. "Oh, to tell the truth, I thought that might be the only suit you owned. Detective's pay not being what it used to."

"I've learned to stick with what works. Unlike your trendy Armani-wannabe suits whose popularity will wax and wane among the gullible yuppie masses, this here is a genuine Fyvush Chneiderman."

Brian pulled up a chair and straddled it, facing John with the solid comfort of the desk between them. "I can't picture you in anything else."

 _Except naked._

Brian clapped a hand over his mouth. He felt the blood drain out of his face.

"Tell me I didn't say that out loud," he said in a very tiny voice.

John Munch was swiftly becoming used to his partner's strange behaviour—which entailed everything from the amazing ability to come off as an ignorant racist anytime they questioned any black kid with a chip on his shoulder, to getting drunk and dry-humping him—was still impressed by the remarkable impersonation his young partner was doing of a ghost. Seizing an opportunity for some amusement, he put on his best no-nonsense face. He raised his eyebrows and said, "Yes, you did, and frankly Brian, I'm shocked."

Brian's eyes widened impossibly larger, and he leaned closer, whispering sarcastically, "Well geeze, I'm sorry, but it can't be that much of a surprise. Can you honestly tell me that after Friday night, you're shocked that I've been picturing you—" He paused, scanning his partner's face for disgust, regret, pity, God forbid encouragement. What he found...

"You...bastard," he breathed. Brian recognized that knowing look from dozens of interrogations, the look that could convince smug suspects that their airtight alibi had sprung a leak, the "I-know-something-you-don't-know," singsong stare that bullshitted the best of them. He'd been duped.

"I can't believe you...so I didn't say...?"

John smirked, eyebrows waggling, stomach churning nervously. "How _do_ you picture me, Brian?" he asked innocently.

When Brian ducked his head, John dropped his gaze to lock eyes with his partner, drawing him back up with a look.

Brian glared at John, temper thrashing, and made to get up. A hand suddenly wrapped tight around his wrist and jerked him down hard back into his seat with a loud thump. They both froze at the sound, linked across the desk hand to wrist, gaze to gaze. John's stare intensified, eyes narrowing as Brian's tongue darted out nervously to lick suddenly dry lips.

Brian was dimly aware of the rest of the squad room happening, but he couldn't seem to blink back to now. His lips parted—to say what, he didn't know. Had this been a Hollywood movie, the hopeful, dramatically inspiring title-track-of-the-soundtrack music would have been cued, leading up to a slow-motion tender kiss. Had this been a...slightly less respectable film, the cheesy 70's tune with pumping bass would have commenced, leading up to a lightning-quick shedding of clothes for an unbelievably long session of poorly-lit Kama Sutra-style circus sex.

This, however, being disappointingly real life, the sound that cut through the mounting emotional tension like a chainsaw was the bark of their esteemed lieutenant. "What is it with you two holding hands...no, wait, I don't want to know. Just get yourselves down to Brighton Beach. We've got a female vic—her pimp's looking good for it."

Two hours later, Brian was feeling pretty damned good. They'd hauled in "Eezy-Squeeze," aka Emin Zornakyan, for questioning. The guy was a straight-up jackass, only showing a twinge of remorse when he realized that one of his prime sources of income would be out of commission for a while. John had paced and ranted and railed, reminding Brian of a psychology lecture he'd attended once with his ex-girlfriend. He'd thrown in obscure references to Thoreau, Faust, Marlowe, a veritable dissertation, expertly assembled. In the early days of their partnership, Brian had been intimidated by this cornucopia of knowledge that so easily flowed from his partner, but he was now beginning to appreciate the true purpose of these tirades. They confused the hell out of suspects while Brian swooped down for the kill, wearing the best "I know what you did last summer" glare that he had learned from John.

Zornakyan had cracked—had more than cracked, was nearly crying for his mommy—by the time Brian brought down the signed and sealed confession.

Of course, when he returned, John had disappeared but had thoughtfully left all the materials needed to make a report conveniently by the word processor.

Half an hour later, Brian was on his fourth draft of the report, and his pinky was aching from the stupid "home row" typing position that John had tried to teach him. He wasn't even sure he was on the right row, considering he hadn't actually been _listening_. Having John standing behind him while he tried to type, arms coming around to place his fingers on the right keys...let's just say that it was suitably distracting.

In fact, even the memory was distracting enough that it wasn't until he heard a tell-tale rustling behind him, signalling his partner's return, that he stopped staring of into space dreamily. He refused to dwell on the fact that he recognized his partner's presence easily enough not to be startled. That was just a sign of being a good partner—they were in tune with each other. _Suuure, Brian-boy, just not as "in tune" as you'd like to be_.

"That is the most appalling spelling of 'obnoxious' that I've ever seen in my life," John commented as he sipped his newly acquired cup of coffee.

"How do you spell it then, O Grand Pumba?"

"That's 'Poobah,' unless you actually intended to call me a flatulent Disney character. And obnoxious contains nary an 'a' and only one 'u'."

Brian craned his neck back and stared blankly.

John sighed and leaned forward, slipping his arms over Brian's shoulders, fingers displacing Brian's own on the keyboard. He leaned closer, pressing his chest closer to his partner's back, his chin resting lightly on the top of Brian's hair. He typed very deliberately, the taps ringing out with distinct "clacks." He spelled out: "O-B-N-O-X," drawing out the consonant, "I-O-U-Sssss." He hit the period key sharply, then stopped, his fingers still poised over the keyboard. He couldn't help but notice that Brian was leaning his head to the side slightly, leaning against John's right arm.

John blinked, and from his position, his lowered vision settled on his partner's lap.

Oh my.

Brian, Brian, Brian...

Ripping the report from the typewriter, John spun around and started rummaging through his desk for a pen, newspaper sections hitting the floor as he yanked open drawer after drawer before pulling a ballpoint from his shirt pocket.

Brian twirled around on the chair, red-faced, and grabbed John's jacket from the desk, draping it over his lap to hide his erection. Too late, he realized that his cock had decided to form a relationship with the jacket without consulting his brain. _The lieutenant naked on a cold winter's day, the lieutenant naked on a cold winter's day_.

John scrawled furiously on the back of the report and then, grabbing a roll of tape in one hand and Brian's shoulder in the other, he hauled them across the squad room and up the hall. All the while, Brian adjusted and readjusted the jacket in front of him, wishing he still had the huge copy of _Johnny Tremaine_ that he'd strategically carried around throughout junior high.

Brian decided quite firmly that he was going insane when John stopped in front of the men's room, tore off four small pieces of tape, and tacked up his makeshift sign reading: "Out of Order." _Y'know, severing ties with reality is a lot more relaxing than people make it out to be_. That was his last coherent thought before he was pushed through the bathroom door and roughly shoved against the wall as John's mouth covered his.

The roll of tape fell to the floor as John's hands became otherwise occupied, running up and down Brian's sides. Their mouths pushed closer together, teeth solid and gnashing beneath soft lips. Nips and short licks were rained over Brian's face, framed by his partner's hands. Dazed, his mouth kept moving on its own accord, his hands still clutching the jacket to his crotch.

"John," he gasped, "what the hell are we doing?"

John made a frustrated groan of protest in his throat before reluctantly pulling away a fraction of an inch. When he spoke, his annoyance was clear. "Brian, if you don't know _that_ , then I hate to break it to you, but you don't have that much of a future in sex crimes." He gave his partner that "Brian, Brian, Brian" look and pushed up his glasses.

"But I mean, we're at _work_! And partners aren't supposed to... And we're at _work_! If someone found out, they'd take our badges away, because _we're at work_!"

"Brian, you have a hard-on splitting through your pants and so do I. We've got some privacy..." His hand began tracing a path down under the spare jacket, circling, circling. "Do you really think we're the first partners to ever grab a quickie on office time?" His voice was softer now, very matter-of-fact. "Besides, if someone were to find us, who would believe it?"

This sounded amazingly reasonable to Brian, especially considering the fact that John's gently squeezing hand was transferring his power of attorney straight to his dick.

"Okay."

John smiled his so-close-to-genuine smile that Brian had to grin. His grin then grew decidedly more wicked as he backed John up against the row of sinks. Hips ground into hips, and Brian's cock leaped, poking through the elastic band of his boxers as he felt John's erection filling, pressing warm into his hipbone. His head was growing more and more fizzy, like cream soda was floating through his bloodstream. He felt himself being pushed back and back, he and John turning, trying not to trip over shoes and trailing jacket, mouths attached to whatever skin they could reach as they turned, turned. Finally, Brian regained his balance, his hips thrusting, searching out more solid weight to push against. He thrust, thrust—

 _THWACK_ _!_ They went flying through the flimsy bathroom stall door, John landing hard on the toilet seat cover. Brian dropped to his knees before him, wincing at the contact with the hard tiled floor, jacket dropping from his hand as he wrapped his arms around his partner. He desperately pressed sloppy, open-mouthed kisses over the length of John's neck, jaw, ear, just trying to _taste_.

John's long fingers threaded through Brian's hair, softening his styling gel, hardening everything else. Brian's own hands were currently fumbling with John's tie, trying to loosen it and succeeding only in choking his partner. Finally he gave up, instead kissing the older man's chest and shoulders through his shirt, letting the soft material grow heavier, hot then cold.

John shivered.

He shivered again as Brian's shaking hands made short work of his belt, then drew down his zipper achingly slow. Hesitant hands traced the outline of John's cock through his boxers, trailing one finger, two, the palms of his hands, harder, harder. Then a rush of cool, recirculated air as his underwear was pulled down. After lifting his hips to aid in this, he closed his eyes and leaned back, the tank digging uncomfortably into his back.

Brian's touch was unbearably soft, his hands too cool but warming quickly on John's heated flesh. Both palms ran up the sides of his cock, thumbs dragging lightly along the underside. It was unsure and unintentionally ruinous, and John fought the urge to slam his head against the wall. Up, down, up—

Wait. Was that—?

A trail of pure heat flared molten-glacier along the head of his cock. He forced his eyes open, looking down just in time to see Brian's tongue reappearing to take another lick.

And another.

And another.

And another, until John was sure his heart was going to explode. But what a way to go out.

The all-encompassing heat of Brian's mouth instantly wiped out all intelligent thought from John's mind as it lowered, lowered, hot and wet with suction that rivalled a Hoover. All that was left was the all-important instinctual motor skills: grasp, thrust, bite, flex, clutch, with maybe a little hyperventilating thrown in for good measure.

Echoing whispers, affirmations, moans, prayers no god would want to hear, all spliced with the wet, steady, slurping noises that filled the empty restroom. Brian's tongue swirled, tasting, teasing, just relishing the iron-hard heat in his mouth. It had seemed forever since he'd last done this, but he fell easily back into a remembered rhythm, hand and mouth working in tandem.

Throwing himself into any trick he could to prolong this melting feeling, John found some unwanted thought niggling at the edges of his mind. _Alpha, Beta, Kappa, wait...Zeta...condom...no...Eta...no condom...hadn't been tested since..._

"Fuck, Brian, I'm gonna, huh, take your mouth off...now."

Brian paused for a moment, then continued, his lower lip doing something positively ingenious.

"Brian." More urgently this time. "Brian, I mean it!"

The young man stopped, surprised, disconnecting his mouth from John's cock with a wet smack. The look on his face... His eyes were slightly reddened from opening them suddenly in the tract-lit room, his lips were puffy, kiss-bruised and gleaming with spit, his mouth was open, chest heaving from panting, and his eyes...his eyes were begging for direction, willing to do anything, _anything_ to please...

John couldn't help it: with that thought, he came, a thick spurt of semen pulsing out from his twitching cock, hitting Brian on the right cheek, the corner of his mouth...the sight before him could make him come all over again. Brian licked his lips, catching just a pearl of liquid on his tongue, and John came undone...

Slipping his arms under his partner's, he dragged him off the floor to straddle his lap. He pulled the tense body closer, closer until they were pressed chest to chest, Brian's pulse hammering strong into both his shoulder and his abdomen. Fingers twining through the soft hair, John very deliberately licked the drying, sticky mess from his partner's face with broad laps, feeling the young man wiggle against him and groan helplessly with each hitching breath.

 

Detective Eliot Stabler cursed, quite loudly. Then he cursed again, more quietly this time but much more explicitly. He glared at his hands and the notepad in front of him. He glared harder until the vein in his forehead began pulsing tensely. Nothing. The blotting puddle of ink that had soaked him when his pen spontaneously combusted remained. Holding his arms awkwardly in front of him, he made his way to the men's room.

 

"Ooh yeah...ah...wow..." The mindless litany of one-syllable words, silenced only by intermediate kisses, flowed endlessly from Brian's lips. He'd really tried to make himself care that anyone walking by could hear how loud he was being, but John's hand was down in his pants doing something positively inspired that was most likely illegal in 48 states. He could feel John's tongue on his, thrusting in time with his hand, swirling in that same maddening pattern—could smell that heady scent, feel the thin body beneath him. He was afraid to open his eyes, afraid to find out that this was just another wet dream. _Oh sure, like you've ever dreamed something this weird_. He rested his forehead on John's shoulder and burrowed his nose closer to the juncture of arm and torso, waiting for his orgasm to overtake him.

 

 _Out of order, my ass_. The restroom had been fine this morning, but of course, since this was just his day, it had to need repairs the moment he needed the sink. Screw it, he wasn't going all the way upstairs just because a couple of idiots hadn't mastered the concept of flushing. He tried pushing the door open with his elbow, only to have the heavy door swing shut on him.

 

Brian froze. "Somebody's at the door!" he whispered fiercely, struggling as the arm around him tightened.

"So?" John asked, his arm—and hand—not letting go.

Brian stared at him, wild-eyed and desperate, and not in the good way.

"Fine." John's long legs swung forward, kicking the stall door closed. Brian winced as the shifting of John's thighs underneath him excited him further; not even the creak of the restroom door opening could diminish his cock's insistence at being dealt with.

John looked down and grinned.

 

Eliot made a perfunctory inspection of the bathroom as he entered: no obvious flooding, didn't smell like the septic tank. The first stall was occupied, a jacket discarded on the floor and feet visible...

He decided that he really didn't need to know why they were backwards, facing the wall. Unless...nope, there was movement. He shook his head ruefully at the fact that after all this time on the force, his first question when sizing up a situation was "Where's the body?" He worked the taps on using his wrists, trying to avoid getting ink on even more of his shirt.

 

Under the cover of the sound of rushing water, John resumed pressing kisses onto Brian's arched neck, even as the younger man tried to pull away, eyes wide, face contorting in a fantastical conveyance of anxiety. He stiffened as John whispered softly in his ear, "What are you going to do, Brian? Run out of the bathroom while whoever's in here is in here? Like that won't look suspicious."

Brian relaxed slightly, then bit his lip hard as his partner's hand enunciated his point with a squeeze.

The moist whispering continued, somewhat hypnotically. Brian tightened his thighs around John's, trying with all his will not to thrust into his partner's stilled hand lest he cry out.

"Come on Brian, think about it."

Damn, it was that coaxing voice again. The voice that had evolved from "Come on Brian, we can follow up this lead without checking in with the lieutenant," to "Come on Brian, have sex with me in the washroom of our workplace while one of our co-workers washes his hands." It sounded ridiculous when put like that, but he resigned himself to listening.

"Whoever's out there can't hear us. He's just standing there, completely oblivious to the fact that the golden boy of sex crimes is fucking John Munch not three feet away." A steady, sure stroke punctuated this, driving Brian forward, making him tighten his hands on John's hips and bite down on his shoulder, attempting to muffle the helpless whimper escaping his throat.

"Or maybe," John changed tactics, his mind exploring a thousand possibilities now that blood flow had returned to his brain, "maybe, he _can_ hear us, maybe he's picturing you right now. Of course, whatever he's imagining can't live up to this." He softly brushed his thumb over the underside of Brian's cock, then moved up, up, smearing the precum leaking steadily out of the head as Brian went granite-still.

Breathing in, breathing in, Brian shut his eyes so tightly he saw stars. Out of the corner of his mind, over the sound of running water, he heard the distinct sound of toilet paper ripping, but was too far gone to wonder. John's merciful movements were speeding up, bringing him closer, closer...

"Brian..." John whispered. "Brian...do you think he's hard?"

With those heated, choked words, Brian climaxed, shooting into the rough wad of toilet paper John held waiting. His right leg twitched, trembled, beat a steady staccato against the floor, while outside, Eliot scrubbed the remaining indigo ink from under his nails, determined to ignore the grotesque groan and foot-stamping he heard emerging from the bathroom stall.

Of course the hand-dryer didn't turn on. Eliot briefly considered grabbing some toilet paper to dry his hands with, but decided to the negative, casting a leery glance at the busy backwards-facing occupant of the first stall. Kicking the roll of tape on the floor out of the way— _Not going to ask_ —he exited the restroom.

 

"Uhm, yeah." Fighting off his usual post-coital sleepiness, Brian slumped bonelessly onto his partner as his breathing regulated. John's legs had dropped with an audible pop, allowing the stall door to swing back open.

"Mm," was John's uncharacteristically unopinionated response. Then he breathed in sharply and stirred, lifting Brian to his feet.

Unsteadily, Brian shook off his headrush and bent—however far he could in such a cramped space—to refasten his pants as John did the same. John flushed the wad of toilet paper while Brian awkwardly brushed the dirt off the knees of his pants, keeping his eyes averted shyly.

"You should leave first—avoid Big Brother's watchful stare and all that. I need to clean up a bit. Besides, you have a report to write. Spelling counts." He gave Brian's hip a squeeze, and with much bumping and sidling, they managed to exit the stall.

Brian followed scant inches behind his partner, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. He was infused with a new sort of giddy energy now that he had cast off his sleepiness, and he was loath to step out of that personal space of radiating heat. He inspected himself in the streaked mirror while John was splashing cold water on his face. He didn't look any different to himself, a little flushed, but he felt a little lighter inside, uncoiled, with that "first time with someone new" high. He bit his tongue to stop himself from asking John how he was feeling. He'd jinxed enough relationships by coming off as too needy...but what if he didn't feel the same way?

 _I'm not obsessing._

 _I'm not obsessing._

"Hey, John?"

John looked over at him, seemingly unsurprised by his partner's closeness, and raised both eyebrows.

"Uhm..." _Say something non-obsessive, say something non-obsessive_ "...no one would believe it, right?" He flashed his best endearing smile.

John smirked. "The day somebody guesses there's something going on with us is the day that the Canadians are publicly exposed as the nuke-carrying puppeteers they really are."

Brian decided to take that as a good sign and, gathering all his courage, grabbed John by the back of the head and gently mouthed at his lower lip. He drew back, wiping his mouth with his knuckle, and gave a little backwards skip out of the restroom.

As the door closed, John snorted, loosening his tie, swiftly unbuttoning his shirt, and pushing his jacket off one shoulder. He peered more closely into the mirror, examining the darkening bite mark on his collar bone. It was developing into a nasty bruise, but there was no blood. He ran a finger over it and smiled. Then, realizing he looked like a psychopath, he rebuttoned his shirt.

He cleaned his glasses, which were still fogged up from Brian's heavy breathing, and buttoned up his jacket to hide the remaining damp stains on his chest.

Jacket...

He slipped back into the stall, grabbed his newly returned jacket from off the floor, shaking it to dispel the little clouds of dust on it. Draping it over his arm, he stepped into the hallway, wearing his usual expression of sarcastic amusement but with a slight spring in his step.

 

"Next time, clear it with the arresting officer, or else it might be inadmissible in..."

"Detective Stabler?"

Standing there in the hallway with the toast-for-brains rookie he'd been tracking down all morning, Eliot had watched Brian Cassidy saunter out of the restroom. While he remembered being the new kid on the block, he'd been suitably unnerved to see the kid's grin considering what he'd heard while he was in there. And the way the kid kept rubbing his cheek and checking his hand...

Now, not five minutes later, John Munch came out too, and there was no way that Eliot could have missed someone else going in there. He motioned for the officer to keep talking but watched out of the corner of his eye as John surreptitiously took down the piece of paper from the bathroom door.

Was that tape he was carrying? And an extra jacket?

No one could say that Eliot Stabler was a stupid man. As John strutted by, slapping Eliot's arm with a muttered hello, an idea began to form in his head.

Somewhere north of there, the Canadian government braced for the fallout.


End file.
